Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (31 page)

I
do
want to be happy again.

I want to feel warmth.

I want to smile.

I want to laugh.

I want to love.

He speaks again, stronger this time.
“The choice is yours.”

It’s not that simple
, I argue internally.

“The choice is yours.”

I shake my head.
It’s not that simple
, I repeat.

I expect to hear it again, but instead, Spencer’s angelic laughter fills my ears. The memory of us lying side by side in my bed just mere months ago follows close behind, her holding my hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“It’s a new day, Cass.”

What I wouldn’t give for it to be a new day.

Just as I begin to consider her words, I feel a slither of fear strike at the memory. It dissipates like a cloud of smoke, and tears crawl up my throat with the loss as it’s replaced by the ever-present blur of darkness.

You are nothing.

You are disgusting.

No one wants you.

You are alone because you deserve to be.

You will never be happy.

Pain creeps back and settles into its usual places, my bones feeling brittle and weak under its weight.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of feeling this way.

I’m tired of missing the people I love.

I’m tired of the constant, overbearing agony.

Grady’s words are like a finger, tapping repeatedly on the outskirts of my mind, reminding me that it’s
my
choice. I can let the darkness drag me further, or jump off and hope to hell I find something to grab on to with my exit.

My eyes narrow at the comforter shielding me from the sun, and slowly, I drag it over my face until it pools onto my chest. I inhale deeply with the gust of fresh air and blink my eyes until they finally adjust. Light rushes me, the warmth from the rays leeching through my window, blanketing me. With the sun shining into my room, it’s as though my eyes have been opened for the first time in six weeks. Everything around me is vivid and bright with colors I haven’t bothered to notice in a long while.

I take a peek at Roger.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter, then rise, my comforter falling across my waist as I stretch widely before swinging my legs off the side of the bed. Unsteadily, I make my way to the bathroom and flick on the light.

I look at my reflection and tears gather as I attempt to find my focus. I clear them away and take in another long breath, staring back at myself.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, there comes a point in your life when you stop cowering and somehow muster the courage to raise your head to take a good, hard look at your reflection, and in turn, at your life. A point in time when you finally rise above your manufactured walls to observe exactly where the road you’ve chosen has landed you. And when you see everything at once, all the missed opportunities and numerous broken relationships, the sight is enough to shatter an already broken heart.

Some people quit. They willingly accept the fate they’ve dealt themselves and shrink back into the nothingness from which they briefly emerged.

Others are stubborn. They choose to keep their eyes open, not just to look, but to
see
. The need to survive strengthens them as they come face to face with their own worst enemy:

Themselves.

I level my stare at the reflection in front of me. My hair is messy and tangled and my skin is pale and ashen, but what really draws my attention is the dull haze cloaking my once-spirited brown eyes. Its presence is a stark reminder of how truly lifeless I’ve allowed myself to become.

And for the first time in years, I acknowledge why.

In avoiding my past, I’ve cut off any chance I’ve ever had to really live.

Because the truth is, the past is an extension of one’s self. It’s an integral part of who you are, and if you refuse to acknowledge it, if you refuse to nurture and heal its wounds, that part will eventually dwindle to nothing and its death will spread like a frenzied virus. Before you know it, any remnants of the person you were no longer exists. One day, you’ll wake up and take a long look in the mirror, with absolutely no recognition of the person standing in front of you.

Even worse, you will loathe them.

Anger and disappointment flood me, their weight so heavy I’m forced to rest my palms on the counter for balance. My chin trembles and tears strike the laminate below me.

Without a doubt, I know this is it. My time to choose. I can slink back into the shelter of numbness and allow it to dull the absolute agony ripping through my chest,
or
I can search deep within myself and try to find my strength to help me weather the pain.

Shaking my head, my mind teeters back and forth, and continues to do so until I’m finally able to brave another look in the mirror.

And that’s when I see it.

It’s dim but it’s there.

Buried deep, a tiny glimmer of hope somehow remains, safely preserved within the memories of a dark-haired little girl. The girl who one day excitedly skipped her way across the street to meet her new best friend. The girl who loved and trusted so easily, and who even vowed to protect those who meant the most to her.

The same girl who later experienced the most horrific of tragedies, and understandably lost herself in the darkness as she tried to navigate the nightmares left behind. Alone.

But now, as I stare back as my reflection, I know I will find my way.

I take hold of that hope and allow it to tether me as I find footing in my newfound focus.

I
refuse
to allow myself to feel a victim any longer.

I am a survivor.

It runs through my mind on replay over, and over, and over again. With each revolution, strength churns and resolve steels itself inside me.

I dip my head at the mirror, my mouth set with determination. My legs already feel lighter as I exit the bathroom and head to the top drawer of my dresser. I hook my fingers around the handle, then tug it open and reach for the wadded-up card stashed underneath my clothes.

As soon as it’s extracted, I unfold its crinkled edges and smooth it in my hands.

Thank you,
I whisper silently to Grady before grabbing my phone and dialing the number on the card before I lose my nerve. Two rings later, I’ve hopefully found someone to help guide me off this fucking hell ride.

“Hi, um, Dr. Miller?”

I WAS EXTREMELY SURPRISED
by Dr. Miller’s youthful voice when she answered her phone. Her tone was cheery and welcoming, not at all uppity or stiff as I had imagined it would be. To my surprise, she knew exactly who I was, and even more shocking, she insisted we meet immediately. On a weekend. At her house.

So I accepted her invitation, jumping in my Jeep before I had a chance to second-guess my actions. Which brings me to now, pulling up to the curb, in front of a red-brick, two-story house. A single red wagon sits on the porch filled with a multitude of stuffed animals, some hanging off the sides as though seeking help.

The sight brings a small grin to my face, in spite of the herd of elephants running amuck in my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I tear my gaze away from the porch and pull my rearview mirror down to examine my face.

I clear yesterday’s eyeliner that has drifted below my lashes with the tips of my fingers, the only makeup on my face. After one final look, I give up on bettering my appearance and tug on the handle, finally stepping onto the concrete of the street. My ponytail blows in the breeze as I shut the door, and I steal another calming breath before beginning the trek toward the porch. I pass by the two cars in the driveway, one a black Chevy Z71 truck and the other a bright yellow Mini Cooper, my brows lifting in appreciation for the latter.

Another slight smile plays on my lips, but falls with my slowed steps as I approach the front door. I’m not sure if it’s anxiety due to my recent decision to contact and potentially trust this random person, or if it’s fear that the underlying hope motivating me to keep walking will be crushed if I made the wrong choice in doing so.

I don’t even have time to ponder the answer to my own question before the door swings open and I’m met with two sky-blue eyes and a huge beaming smile. My eyes widen in surprise, only to break from hers to take a quick glance behind me, making sure I have the right address.

There is no way this is Dr. Miller.

She’s absolutely stunning. Her light-blonde hair is formed into an angular bob that perfectly frames her face, highlighting her amused stare complete with dimpled grin. She steps onto the porch and my gaze falls to a very worn concert tee with a few bands’ names on the front. Some I recognize, some I don’t.

My brows form a crease as I read them all in their entirety before inquiring, “Who’s
Poe
?”

Finished with the shirt, I’m surprised at her appalled expression as she wordlessly stares back at me. After a few seconds, she closes her mouth, shakes her head, and clears her throat before announcing, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that.”

The sun illuminates her face as she takes another step toward me and extends her hand in greeting. “Dr. Miller. But please, call me Aubrey. And you’re Cassie?”

I nod and my eyes flit briefly over several remnant piercings in her face before they disappear into her dimples when she smiles again. I breathe a sigh of relief and clasp her hand with mine.

I don’t know why seeing the practically sealed holes calms my nerves, but it does. Maybe it’s because I know she’s not perfect, that she won’t pass judgment on me because perhaps she’s made some mistakes of her own at a particularly low point in her life. I really can’t explain it, but as she turns to head into her house, I no longer feel anxious.

I follow her lead, closing the door behind me, and as soon as it’s shut, she turns to face me, gesturing widely. “I apologize for having to meet at my home, but my office is being renovated at the moment. I have another one here, so I figured we could use it in the meantime, if that’s okay with you?”

My face splits into a smile. “I prefer it actually. I feel more . . . comfortable here, I think.”

She grins back at me. “Excellent. Then let’s get to know each other.”

I watch her feet as she pivots around, her frayed bell-bottom jeans cover the top of her feet, leaving her painted-black toenails on clear display as she walks.

Yeah, I think we will get along just fine.

Together, we maneuver over many more stuffed animals strewn along the hallway as she apologizes over her shoulder. “It’s a wreck in here, sorry. My office is down this way, just off the hall.”

“No worries,” I state, stepping over a koala.

A burst of giggles and baritone laughter come from the other side of the house, and I can’t help but smile at the sound. Aubrey shakes her head in front of me. “They’re ridiculous, those two.”

“You’re married?” I inquire as she opens a door then reaches to turn on the light before we enter.

“For five blissful years.”

More giggles sound. She grins back at me, her face beaming with the sound.

She offers no more and I don’t ask, unsure of proper protocol in this situation. Of this
whole
situation, in fact. I’m not sure how many patients actually visit their therapist’s homes.

As though reading my mind, Aubrey offers, “I normally don’t meet people here, in case you’re wondering. I do have a temporary office downtown, but I’ve been waiting on your call for a while, and I didn’t want to lose the chance to chat with you before you changed your mind.”

Right then, I know, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

She understands. She understands how terrifying this is for me.

She gestures for me to have a seat in one of the leather chairs while she sits in the other. My body folds into the seat and I watch as she tucks her legs underneath her body, getting comfortable. My eyes land on the wall behind her, taking in the radiance of the mural filling the entire space. Brilliant shades of yellows, oranges, and reds are masterfully woven together, painted along its length to form an image of a burning sun.